by Jeanne Rose
There was even an alien language to get used to, not to mention a mix of several cultures. Would she be able to adjust? Frances wondered. As Belle had suggested, she supposed she would do what she must.
Indeed, she thought bitterly, welcome to Santa Fe!
CHAPTER FOUR
CHACO HAD SHOT many men through the years, but never an innocent bystander. Feeling low as a snake, he had ridden the train to Santa Fe, then had gone through the motions of contacting and paying the undertaker, all the while haunted by the anguished screams of Nathan Gannon's widow ringing through his head. He could still feel her fists flailing at him helplessly. Could see her husband's blood staining her clothing.
Remembering cut him to the quick.
Nathan Gannon. The name had held a familiar ring when he'd gotten it from the half-breed girl. Then it had come to him. Blue Sky Palace. He'd visited the place more than once and knew Gannon had a reputation of being a decent man, of running an honest game.
Well, he wouldn't be running games anymore, not unless faro and poker tables were part of white man's heaven.
Having left Martinez in Galisteo Junction to take care of the wounded man, Chaco had no reason to return to the smaller town. And the way he was feeling now, real sick deep down, he wasn't certain he wanted to return to Lincoln County. Might only return to Ralston's to quit. He'd had his stomach full of gunfighting.
Feeling dead to the world, he strolled down the streets of Santa Fe, paying little attention to who or what he passed. Still, a couple of times, he thought he sighted the same raggedy old woman in a black rebozo. Trailing him? If she was, he thought sardonically, what could he do – shoot her?
He wasn't certain how he ended up on a corner across from a small church. He stared at the adobe building with a simple cross on its bell tower for a few minutes before deciding to go inside. More Apache than Catholic, his mother hadn't taken him to church often but he could remember the singing and the prayers and the strong smell of incense.
He followed a middle-aged Mexican woman into the outer vestibule and emulated her ceremonial actions. Dipping a hand in the holy water, he quickly crossed himself. Then he started to follow the woman into the sanctuary when he realized he was still wearing his gun. He had misgivings about leaving the Colt on the gun-rack near the door, but this was a holy place. He finally undid his belt and hung it beneath his hat.
The inner sanctuary was nearly as simple as the church's exterior. Beneath the vigas of its corbeled roof sat wooden benches on a packed earthen floor. Chaco eased himself onto one of the benches. Behind the altar was a painted wooden screen of sacred figures, a reredos. To one side, hung the crucifix, a cross with a blood-speckled Jesus wearing a gold crown of thorns. Looking at the other alcoves, Chaco immediately recognized the Virgin of Guadalupe. While his half-breed mother had felt easy with Guadalupe, with her burnished skin of an Indian and the rays of the Aztec sun shining behind her back, she’d raised him in the Apache beliefs. Spirit power imbued everything in the universe and could either be used by the wise for good or by the self-serving for evil. The Apaches had addressed that power in their ceremonies, including those performed for the dead.
But Nathan Gannon had not been Apache.
Though he'd probably been as decent as his mother’s bullwhacker husband Reuben Jones. The man had given Chaco his name and treated him like a son. Oneida had lit a candle for Reuben when he'd been killed on the Santa Fe Trail.
Would a candle help Gannon's soul? Chaco wondered, watching the Mexican woman slide a coin into the box near Guadalupe, then take a votive, light it and place it on the Virgin's altar.
The tiny flame glowed and flickered like a star in the darkness. Reminded of the starry, moonlit night when he'd seen the wolf, he dredged up the uneasy feelings he'd been having the past week or two. Had they been leading up to the shooting today? To bad magic? Was a bruja, a skinwalker, on his trail?
He didn't want to consider that. At heart he might be mostly Apache, but he didn't like to give into outright superstition.
As he sat there brooding, he saw the church's padre come out of the confessional set up to one side. Surely a holy man's prayers would have more weight with the white man's God. If the padre prayed, perhaps Gannon could be moved to forgive him in the next world and perhaps her God would smile on Gannon's widow in this one. He couldn't forget her bravery in attacking someone like him. And her dirt-streaked face and heart-wrenching cries haunted him and invaded his dreams.
He rose to approach the priest, who was short, balding and kind-faced. When caution flickered over the padre's features, Chaco spoke to him in Spanish. "Have no fear. I'm here for prayer, not trouble."
The padre relaxed visibly. "Good, good. And would you like to make a confession as well, my son?"
Did the man know what he'd done? Chaco wondered uncomfortably, then decided the question was probably asked of everyone. "I'm not Catholic." He'd never been baptized. "I wouldn't know how. But I'd like a prayer said for a man who was killed today." His mother had told him that was possible. "How do I go about it?"
"For a small fee, I can say a mass for him," the padre offered. "That would be best."
Chaco didn't even bother asking how much the fee was. Instead, he reached into his pocket and brought out a crinkled piece of paper, then several twenty dollar gold pieces. He placed some coins in the padre's hand.
"So generous! Thank you, my son."
"Do a real good mass for him. Name was Nathan Gannon." Chaco paused. "And could you say a prayer for Mrs. Gannon, too? Don't know much about her but she's all alone."
The padre smiled. "Of course I will mention the widow. Pobrecita!"
Poor little one. Yeah, she was, Chaco thought, already feeling better.
Glancing at the paper he still held in his hand, the missive that had been hand-delivered days ago, he also realized he was now in the position to do something about it.
"And is there anything else, my son?"
He looked at the priest, surely a learned man as well as a holy one. "Can you read a letter for me? My Spanish isn't too good."
"You are speaking it well."
"Yeah, speak, not read." Chaco smoothed out the piece of paper, once again inspecting the flowing handwriting. To him, it was only a fancy design, except for his own name at the top and the signature at the bottom. "I didn't learn Spanish in school." Actually, he hadn't learned English there either. He'd attended school for only a few days at a time and couldn't read or write in any of the three languages he spoke. Not that he intended to admit that to anyone.
The priest motioned. "Come over here and we shall read your letter."
He led Chaco to a small room that opened off the sanctuary. Chaco sat on a bench in front of the padre's desk, where a kerosene lamp burned. The priest took a pair of spectacles from a drawer and read:
"To Senor Chaco Jones,
You do not know me but I have been aware of your existence since you were born. Your mother was my servant. I do not know exactly how to state this, Senor Jones, but I have come to believe that I should inform you that I am your father.
If you would like to speak of this with me, you may find me at my estancia north of Santa Fe. Ask anyone of knowledge for directions if you do not already know your way.
Don Armando de Arguello "
The padre was visibly shocked. "Don de Arguello is your father?"
The priest, like everyone in this part of New Mexico Territory, was certainly aware of the wealthy, centuries-old Hidalgo family. And he probably wouldn't have expected such an announcement to be given to a dust-streaked mestizo gunfighter. Chaco simply sat and stared at the floor, emotions and thoughts awhirl. When he had seen the name de Arguello, he'd figured on some kind of job offer having to do with his reputation with a gun – one he'd already determined to turn down – but he had not expected this.
The padre shook his head in amazement. "Don de Arguello!"
Still in shock, Chaco suddenly became concerned. "You
won't speak of this to anyone?"
"If you do not wish it. I am a man of God." The padre folded the letter carefully and gave it back. "You are going to ride north and see the Don, are you not?"
"I don't know."
"But such an offer – "
"I don't need the money of a rico." A rich man who lived off of others. At least Chaco didn't need the money that bad. "I can take care of myself." He had done so since his mother died twenty years before.
"But you are of his blood."
"And that of a half-breed slave." On whom de Arguello may have forced himself, for all Chaco knew. Then, when she was pregnant, the wealthy man had given Oneida her freedom and some money to get her out of his house. "The Don hasn't bothered with me for thirty-five years," he said angrily. "Why should I be in a hurry to bother with him?"
AT LAST, she had seen her enemy in the flesh, she rejoiced.
Having acted on the word of one of the spies she had sent to watch him, she had come to Galisteo Junction, then back to Santa Fe, dogging his footsteps.
Filled with hatred, she wanted to rip the meat from his bones, to smell the acrid odor of his life's blood seeping slowly out of his body.
And she could have that pleasure soon...if it were not for that peculiar aura of strength he exuded...and if her own mortal weaknesses did not hamper her. Her enemy was a well-made man, handsome beneath the dust and grime. His walk was graceful, gliding. He had the bearing of a fierce Apache warrior.
Apache!
She must remember that ancestry and how very much she longed for his death. She envisioned him dead now, ants eating his eyes, blood leaking into the sand from his torn throat, draining his life away.
His life – what a virile and tempting one, indeed.
Despite her passionate desire for his death, she also longed to feel him beneath her, wanted to ride his body like a bucking horse, wanted him to spill his heat and seed into her womb.
Life or death. She felt torn between them.
And power over either was not easy.
Meanwhile, she had followed him and watched him enter a church. Cursing, she also decided to go inside, though she hadn't had time to take her usual precautions.
Her muttering became low snarls as she felt the burning pain upon entering the vestibule. She tried to ignore the flames that flowed up through the earth and seared the soles of her feet through her shoes. Sighting his gun hanging on the rack, she was elated. She could take a piece of him with her. Drawing the knife from beneath her rebozo, disregarding her pain, she quickly cut off the piece of rawhide that had fastened the gunbelt to his thigh.
Then she fled, growling deep in her throat, pausing only long enough to spit on the threshold of this cursed holy ground.
Outside, she scurried down a narrow street, finally resting against an adobe wall until her feet cooled. But her burning hatred was not assuaged. Having always existed on the fringes of society, she prowled the streets for some time afterward, undetected, dreaming of special tortures while filled with itching desire.
Damn him!
Then she spotted a slim Navajo youth fastening his horse to a hitching post. He wore a bright blue shirt and around his head had tied a printed scarf from which flowed hair as black and sleek as a raven's wing.
Hmm. Rippling muscles, a glimpse of firm brown hip between his loincloth and leggings.
Yes, he would do.
Quickly, she straightened, threw aside her rebozo and opened the throat of her blouse. She swayed toward him, her eyes bold, hair loosened, breasts inviting. Knowing exactly how to influence him, she removed the packet of herbs from about her neck.
Thankfully, she would be able to take the edge off both her appetites.
FRANCES HAD TRAVELED beyond the boundaries of her dreams. Every day she awakened in a strange, faraway land she could never have envisioned in Boston. Though its unpaved streets were rutted and much of its populace crude, Santa Fe bloomed like an exotic desert flower, face toward the eternally bright sun, petals fluttering to soft Spanish music, roots sunk deep in ancient soil.
She'd lived in the city for a little more than a week. Louisa had come by with a carriage one day and had driven her around. The girl had pointed out the central plaza, a small open square of paths and trees where a military band played on Saturday evenings while handsome caballeros paraded past giggling maidens in pretty shawls. On one side of the plaza lay the Palace of the Governors, a long, seventeenth century adobe building with a great portal and several heavy wooden doors. Having belonged to both the Indians for a short time after the Pueblo revolt in 1680 and, mainly, the Spanish, the structure now housed the offices of the U.S. Territorial government.
Frances had seen plenty of soldiers come and go as clientele at the Blue Sky Palace. She had done her bookwork upstairs and had arranged for purchasing and delivery in the mornings before Blue Sky opened. And Belle had been kind enough to keep her "girls" confined to the saloon or the farthest wing of the hotel.
Frances hadn't had any trouble with the work and had even managed to make herself at home in Nate's rooms. The funeral over but not forgotten, she still felt shocked and sad but she'd settled in when yet another crisis loomed. The floorman who'd managed the casino, a traditional Mexican who'd worked for Nate for years, had quit, saying he simply couldn't be bossed by a woman.
She herself would now have to fill in and she was terribly nervous, even though Belle tried to reassure her.
"You don't have to worry about most of those men," Belle said while Frances prepared for her first evening on the floor. "They'll treat you like a lady, especially since you act like one." The older woman looked over her high-necked black dress. "What are you wearing anyway? Not that, surely."
Frances stared in the full-length, gilt-edged mirror hanging on one white-washed wall. Standing in the midst of couches and a four-poster all covered with bright Navajo blankets, she supposed she did resemble a pale-faced crow.
"That red dress'd do a whole lot better for tonight."
"My ball gown?" The fancy beaded one Nate had picked out in Chicago? Frances cleared her throat. "It's a little too revealing, don't you think?"
Belle argued, "You want the customers to think you're making enough money to run a high-class game.” She knit her brows. "We really should do something about your hair. With it all slicked back like that, you still look like a schoolmarm. You'll scare the customers away, honey. Not good for business."
Frances sighed. "I suppose not." And she needed their money to make a new start.
"Then I'll fetch the curling iron," said Belle, before sweeping out the door onto the roofed balcony that curved about the Blue Sky's inner placita and connected the building's C-shaped wings.
Hoping she wasn't going to regret what she was about to do, Frances changed into a fancier corset and a stiffer satin petticoat. She had to remember that no one knew her in Santa Fe and that no one would be shocked at the idea of her sashaying through a gambling parlor in a blood-red dress.
She should also remember that she'd been dismissed by Miss Llewellyn and that there wasn't a chance in high heaven that she'd ever get another decent teaching position, even if she crawled all the way back to Boston.
"Old prune," she muttered, thinking of the headmistress as she drew a casual wrapper around her. "Nasty, dried-up old vulture!"
When someone laughed, a soft giggle, Frances nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled around to see a young blonde lounging against the half-open door which she hadn't thought to lock.
"I'm afraid you caught me talking to myself."
"Well, if no one else is around, why not?"
The blonde wasn't exactly pretty but she had long, abundant pale hair that hung down past the loose neck of the embroidered blouse she wore with a bright red skirt, bare legs and open sandals.
Belle suddenly appeared at the door. "What are you doing up here, Ruby?"
"I got curious, thought I'd wander around a bit."
Belle said firmly,
"You're new, I know, but you're supposed to stay downstairs."
The girl appeared downcast. "I guess I'll go then."
Frances noted that Ruby was young, no more than a year or so older than Louisa. And she was one of the "girls"? Was there no other work the little blonde could get? she wondered sadly. "No, wait, that's all right, Ruby can stay. Maybe you can use some help."
"I bet you can." Ruby immediately made herself useful. "You're gonna heat up that curling iron?" She grabbed it and stuck it in the corner adobe-style fireplace. "I'm real good at doing hair." She glanced at Frances, then at the gown on the bed. "And sewing, too. I could lower that bodice for you."
"Thank you, but it's already quite low enough."
Belle pulled out a straight-backed chair for Frances to sit on and searched the pockets of the apron she wore over her gold satin dress. "Damnation, I forgot my scissors."
"I'll go fetch them," Ruby offered, sounding eager to be of help.
"Top drawer of the cabinet by the storage room."
The girl hurried outside.
"You're going to cut my hair?" Frances asked with trepidation.
"Only the front. When we're done, you'll have some nice curls around your face."
Hoping she wouldn't end up with an elaborate style like Belle's own fussy ringlets and puffs, Frances asked, "How old is Ruby?"
"Says she's eighteen."
"More likely she's not much older than your daughter."
The lines around Belle's eyes deepened. "She has to earn her way somehow and they beat her at that place on the other side of the plaza."
Frances shivered. "Good heavens!"
"No one will touch her here, you can be certain of that."
Belle employed several men as "protection" for Blue Sky, another reason she assured Frances that managing the casino would be safe enough.
"Ruby's popular with the Mexicans," mused Belle. "With that blonde hair, they call her La Rubia."
